I recently watched a good hearted little movie called "Last Ounce of Courage." It had a strong and relevant message. But, it was also over done in places and frankly a little annoying to veterans in some ways.
Most veterans do not wear biker style vests festooned with patches and pins. They would be embarrassed to. They did their job and now it's over. They have moved on and don't need to wear parts of the uniform or symbols of their former service to prove anything to themselves or anyone else.
Nor do they wear tee-shirts with the name of their branch of service printed across their chest. Those are reserved for the kids still serving.
They do not wave the flag gratuitously but display it proudly at proper times and places.They do not use the American flag as a dust cover for their Harley, a decoration in their den or a beach towel to soak up sun tan lotion. They respect it far too much for that and still follow the training they received in how to display, store and dispose of the flag with all of the dignity it deserves.
They do not salute out of uniform. The salute is a military greeting of respect between warriors that is only exercised when in uniform. Even active duty service members do not salute out of uniform. They were trained to come to attention and put their hand or their hat over their hearts and they still follow that training out of respect for their brothers still in uniform.
So, what do these silent veterans look like? Father Dennis E. O'Brian, Chaplain U.S.M.C. said it better that I ever could:
Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye.
Others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg - or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity.
Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem.
You can't tell a vet just by looking.
He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.
He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel.
She - or he - is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang.
He is the POW who went away one person and came back another - or didn't come back AT ALL.
He is the Quantico drill instructor who has never seen combat - but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang members into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.
He is the parade - riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.
He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.
He is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb Of The Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.
He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket - palsied now and aggravatingly slow - who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.
He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being - a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.
He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.
